


As Breath

by aunt_deen



Category: Equilibrium (2002)
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4582257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aunt_deen/pseuds/aunt_deen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Preston is feeling and he doesn't know what to do about that. Partidge has a suggestion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Breath

The Prozium cartridge shifted against Preston’s waist, silently accusatory as he strode among the ruined buildings. He wiped his hand on his tunic, still convinced he could feel the puppy’s saliva. He had brought it food and water, but the creature seemed to crave affection more than sustenance. The pathetic, piercing yips as Preston walked away had him seriously expecting enforcers to appear from the shadows, descending on him with passionless violence. Even now he felt an irrational prickling at the back of his neck, as if unseen eyes followed his path.

 

Was it the lack of the drug that made the Nethers so menacing today? _Take the drug,_ part of his mind whispered, _Things will be calm again. Predictable. Clear._ Partridge’s face flashed through his mind. The regret in his eyes. The resignation as he faced his death. His suicide. A surge of anger shook Preston, leaving him breathless. Partridge hadn’t even tried to defend himself. Hadn’t tried to avoid Preston’s bullet. Just made the slow, deliberate move to raise his gun, forcing a response. Damn him. This had been a man capable of shocking speed and power when he chose to use them. Preston had seen him take down more than a dozen armed sense offenders at a time, smoothly sliding between bursts of gunfire, spinning and twisting and shooting until bodies littered the floor around him. For a man so quick and deadly, the surrender to execution was both dispiriting and incomprehensible.

 

Dispiriting. When had he ever had to deal with feeling _dispirited?_ Why was he resisting the soothing call of the Prozium? He had never felt so unsettled, so bewildered, so _sad_ when he was taking his regular interval. Why was he risking execution himself just to feel awful?

 

_Because feeling anything is better than feeling nothing,_ he heard. But he heard it in Partridge’s voice. Was this why Partridge was willing to die? Was the experience of emotion, for however short a time, worth the rest of his life?

 

_A heavy cost,_ the voice whispered again. _I pay it gladly._ Preston shook his head quickly, trying to dispel the twinge of grief. Perhaps these feelings, painful and uncomfortable as they were, were better than the gray sameness of a life dampened by Prozium.

 

Mary O’Brien thought so. _Because you can’t feel it, you can’t know it. But it’s as vital as breath._ The intensity of her eyes had unsettled him from the first, even more so since his discovery of the relationship she and Partridge had shared. Had they been “in love” (such a foreign and exotic concept) or just sexual partners? They must have had something beyond a physical relationship to provoke the spitting fury of her attack when she learned that Partridge had died at his hands.

 

The factory door squealed as he pulled it open. Just another abandoned building, the dying sunlight spiking dimly through the dusty glass. Preston began his sweep, sliding silently through the cluttered interior, ostensibly searching for sense offenders. _And what will you do if you find them?_ the Partridge-voice asked irritatingly. He couldn’t kill them, obviously. Perhaps he should look for enforcers, instead. His body was restless, eager for struggle and violence. It would be a welcome release. But his release would cost the lives of his opponents. They were murderers, of course. But guilty of nothing more than he himself had been. If he judged them worthy to die, then how could—

 

The thought was never finished. A shape blurred out of the darkness and Preston barely got his hands up before a thumping blow to his solar plexus knocked the air out of him in a rush and his limbs went numb. He gasped and struggled weakly as strong hands hauled him through a door and shoved him roughly against a wall. His own hands were raised above his head and he felt cold metal snick shut around his wrists and he was caught.

 

“Sloppy, Preston. You should have checked that door before you went past it.”

 

Impossible. The voice in his head was suddenly in his ear. Preston blinked away the fading spots in his vision and looked in shock at the face that had been haunting his dreams. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, but Partridge was still standing in front of him, close enough for Preston to feel the heat of his body. A closely-fitted T-shirt of a muted plum color hugged his torso under a heavy denim jacket and faded blue jeans encased his slim hips. His hair, normally carefully combed into a smooth cap, looked tousled and windblown. So odd, to see Partridge looking casual. But it was unquestionably Partridge.

 

“You’re dead.” Preston said stupidly.

 

“Now, Preston. Obviously I am not dead.”

 

“I shot you. I _killed_ you. I saw your body …”

 

“You saw what we wanted you to see.”

 

“We?”

 

“The Resistance. I knew my days were numbered. I could feel the eyes upon me. I knew I hadn’t been able to hide completely the fact that I was feeling. So I had to die.”

 

“But you …”

 

“A full explanation would take more time than I’m willing to give right now, Preston. Accept my continued heartbeat and we can move on.”

 

“But … the morgue … they showed me your _body._ ”

 

Partridge smiled. “Yes, I heard that you had requested to see my body. We thought of telling you that it had already been incinerated, but I confess … I wanted to have a little fun.”

 

_“Fun?”_ He flushed at the memory of the choked apology he had made to the corpse on the table.

“Yes, Preston, _fun_. It’s another one of those emotional experiences that you have yet to enjoy.” He looked at Preston measuringly. “And I wanted to see if you had gone off your interval yet.”

 

Preston just stared until Partridge sighed. “Really, I’m amazed you didn’t figure it out then and there. When is the last time you saw a corpse with hard nipples? Bloody freezing on that slab.”

 

Preston’s jaw clenched. “Why did you make me shoot you?”

 

The amusement faded from Partridge’s eyes. “Because I hoped it would have an effect on you. I always saw the emotion in you, even through the Prozium. And I knew you would have the strength to do what needed to be done, once you began to feel.”

“I’m not … I’m not feeling.”

 

Partridge’s eyes hardened. “Shall I bring you a mirror?”

 

Preston didn’t speak.

 

“I told Mary to keep that out of sight. But she couldn’t bear to keep everything beautiful hidden away.”

 

“You gave her all those things—“

 

“And now her love of beauty will mean her death,” Partridge continued without pausing. “Unless Father and his regime are overthrown in time to save her.”

 

“Is that why you’re doing this? You want me to save your lover?”

 

Partridge’s voice rose in anger. “Of course I want you to save her. If you can. But that’s not why I’m doing this. In the whole grand scheme of things, Mary doesn’t matter in the least. Neither do I. Neither do you. It’s the human race I want you to save, not just my favorites.”

 

“And you think I can be the downfall of Libria? I’ve spent my _life_ serving Libria. What makes you think I’d destroy it, even if I could?”

 

“Because now that the Prozium isn’t deadening your humanity anymore you can see what a mockery Libria has made of it. Humans weren’t meant to live without feeling and I think you realize that already, even as little as you’ve experienced.”

 

“I told you I’m not feeling!”

 

“Oh, you’re not? You decided in a logical fashion to slaughter half a dozen enforcers in defense of a _puppy_? You coldly and dispassionately try to rescue sense offenders? That isn’t angerI see in you now?”

 

Preston lashed out, handcuffs biting viciously into his wrists as he kicked upwards. Partridge’s dodge was fast enough that the foot just skimmed by his hip instead of connecting solidly with his groin as Preston had intended. Before he could aim a second kick Partridge stepped in close, tangling their legs together and pinning Preston bodily to the wall.

 

“What do you want from me? Why am I here?” Preston’s voice shook with rage and frustration and he bitterly damned his inability to control his new emotions.

 

“You’re here because I think you’re ready to work with us, Preston. Ready to fight the manacles that are binding our entire society.”

 

“Manacles? The only manacles I feel are the ones you put on me.” Preston yanked furiously at the handcuffs. “The manacles you’re talking about never felt like this. Is this how you want everyone to feel? My life without Prozium is …” His eyes squeezed shut before they opened again to stab accusingly. “I used to be _calm._ I used to understand who I was and what my purpose was. Now there’s nothing but confusion and anger and grief and fucking _nightmares!”_ His voice rose to a shout and he glared into the eyes only inches from his own.

 

“I know it’s hard.” Partridge was maddeningly calm. “I went through the same turmoil. But have you felt nothing good?”

 

“Nothing,” Preston spat, although he knew he lied. He could still hear the music when he was quiet.

 

“Perhaps I can help.”

 

“You can help by releasing me. I find nothing _good_ in being shackled to a wall.”

 

“Do you know,” Partridge said as if Preston hadn’t spoken, “I often look back at the revolution and find it incomprehensible that the human race allowed their feelings to be taken away from them. Not the negative ones, although I no longer believe that there’s any such thing as a ‘bad’ feeling. The good ones. Joy Wonder. Laughter. Love. Sex. How could any feeling human imagine life without them?”

 

“We still have sex, Partridge. We haven’t stopped reproducing.”

 

“Reproducing,” Partridge smiled humorlessly. “To you that’s the only reason for sex. Just a way to populate the earth. Not because of the intimacy or the love or just because it feels bloody _fantastic._ ”

 

Preston was silent.

 

“You have two children. I’m betting you’ve had sex a handful of times. When your application had been approved, when you had taken the medication to counter the Prozium just enough to achieve an erection. And conveniently, the combination of drugs puts a haze over your mind. You don’t even have clear memories of it, do you Preston?”

 

Preston tried to remember. Bare skin. Quickened breath. The heat and the strain and the release. But it was all cloudy and jumbled. Much more clear were the headache and nausea of the following day.

 

“It was …” What could he say? It was wonderful? Was it supposed to be wonderful? Was it supposed to feel different than it had?

 

“Would you like to know, Preston?” The question was a whisper of granite and silk in his ear. “Would you like to know what sex is like when it isn’t smothered by that damned drug?”

 

Preston froze as Partridge’s lips grazed his ear. “What are you— what do you mean?”

 

Partridge pulled back until their eyes met. For a long moment they stared and Preston’s heart began to flutter with something like panic, although he didn’t know why.

 

Abruptly, Partridge’s mouth came down hard. Preston struggled, trying to pull away from the mouth and hands that were suddenly foreign and terrifying. He tried to twist away from the kiss, but Partridge held his head in a steely grip, hard fingers pulling open his jaw. A hot tongue licked its way into his mouth and plunged deep.

 

Preston bit down angrily, catching the tongue between his teeth. A grunt of pain and Partridge pulled away, a fleck of blood on his lip.

 

“Get the fuck off me!” Preston snapped.

 

Partridge ignored him and swooped in to fasten his teeth on Preston’s ear, nipping sharply in retaliation and then sucking hard.

 

Preston gasped. All the blood in his veins was surging through him, heating his skin. Partridge licked and sucked at his neck, simultaneously crowding close and grinding against him.

 

“Partridge! You can’t … oh, God …” Preston’s futile struggles became sporadic. His brain couldn’t hold a thought as his senses were bombarded with more feeling than he could comprehend. The breath rasping in his ear. Stubble scratching underneath his jaw. The handcuffs scraping at his wrists. His own heart crashing against his ribs. Hands stroking up and down his sides. The hot mouth sliding wetly over his neck and throat. Partridge’s hips, moving rhythmically against his own.

 

He realized dizzily that his penis was hard. Achingly hard, in fact. When had that last happened? He remembered a morning erection a couple of years ago. Unexplainable and a bit disconcerting. A cool shower had taken care of the problem nicely.

 

But this was … this was agonizing. He felt ready to explode. A loud moan burst from his throat and his hips thrust forward of their own volition to rub his hard bulge against the answering hardness of Partridge. His face burned with humiliation.

 

“Yes,” Partridge whispered. “Let yourself feel it.” Partridge’s hand slipped beneath Preston’s tunic to the fastening of his trousers, unbuttoning and unzipping before Preston understood what was happening. But on the heels of the exquisite relief of pressure on his erection came a fresh wave of cold panic and he struggled wildly.

 

“I can’t! Please …”

 

“You can.” Partridge shoved in tight again and his hand slid firmly over Preston’s penis, encircling and stroking gently. Preston squeezed his eyes shut and tried futilely to keep his body calm as his penis was stroked and massaged. He could feel the calluses on Partridge’s thumb as it rubbed across the head, spreading the moisture that leaked from the tip. Unconsciously, his head tilted back, giving Partridge greater access to his neck and teeth scraped obligingly over his hammering pulse.

 

And then, to Preston’s bewilderment, that torturous mouth ceased its work and Partridge slid to his knees.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked desperately.

 

Partridge didn’t answer, just put his tongue— his _tongue_ — to the tip of Preston’s hard shaft.

 

“Oh, _fuck_ —” Preston’s head fell back against the wall and his hands clenched tight on the rail to which he was cuffed. He felt the fabric of his sleeves tighten against his bunching muscles. Partridge’s lips were gentle and his wet, slippery tongue slid over and around the head of Preston’s penis, licking and sucking. Preston’s breath came in huge gasps, his hips drove forward helplessly, and abruptly his penis was engulfed in wet heat.

 

“Oh …” He couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. He heard a stitch in his right sleeve pop. His hips pistoned wildly, but were quickly pinned to the wall by strong hands.

 

“Please…” It came out in almost a sob, which changed midway to a moan as Partridge began a strong, steady suction, bobbing his head up and down rapidly, swirling his tongue over the head on every upstroke. Preston felt his testicles draw up tight against his body and knew that something was going to happen, something _had_ to happen, this excruciating bliss couldn’t possibly—

 

Partridge hummed around his erection and Preston shouted hoarsely as everything seemed to shatter inside him. His hips jerked in Partridge’s confining hands and the mouth in which he was enclosed suddenly filled with even more slippery heat. He twisted again, mindless in his need to escape the exquisite agony, and desperate to prolong it at the same time.

 

Partridge swallowed around his quivering shaft until it was spent, gentling his mouth, sucking softly until Preston’s moans turned to pain instead of pleasure and he withdrew.

 

Preston’s knees buckled and only the handcuffs kept him up. He gasped at the bite of steel into the abraded flesh of his wrists and struggled to get his feet under him again. Then Partridge was up and lifting him, pinning him to the wall with his own torso while his hands calmly tucked Preston back into his trousers and refastened them.

 

Breathing hard, Preston stared at the floor past Partridge’s shoulder.

 

“Preston,” A soothing hand cupped his jaw and lifted his face until their eyes met. Preston blinked rapidly against the sting of tears but, oddly, his earlier humiliation did not return.

 

Partridge leaned in and kissed him, making a slow, lazy business of it, and this time Preston allowed it. His mouth opened readily and his breath caught as he tasted the salt-bitter flavor of his own seed coating Partridge’s tongue. He sent his own tongue exploring and, with a muffled chuckle, Partridge accepted it, letting it lick past teeth and gums and delve deeply into his mouth. For long minutes they kissed, breathing heavily, tongues sliding back and forth, teeth scraping softly as Preston immersed himself in the sensation.

 

But finally, reluctantly, Partridge freed his lips and slid his cheek alongside Preston’s to whisper, “Do you understand what they’ve taken from us? Feeling is all that allows us to connect with each other. We’ve all been in our own little prisons all this time, not even understanding that there’s anything outside ourselves. That isn’t living. It’s just existing.”

 

Preston rested his forehead on Partridge’s shoulder and took in a deep, shuddery breath. “I don’t know … I can’t think …”

 

Partridge stepped back. “Then go home and think. If you want to find me again, come to the church. Day after tomorrow at sunset.” He reached up and pressed a key into Preston’s hand, holding tightly for a moment. “You can betray me, if you wish. I’ll be alone. If I’m going to die again, it might as well be in the same place.”

 

He turned to leave, but hesitated. “And Preston … I have a feeling we’re not the only ones trying maneuver you in this direction. Someone might be setting you up for a fall.” His eyes dropped to the ground for a moment and his voice became a whisper. “Don’t tell Mary you saw me.”

 

Then he turned and left, the inky darkness swallowing him in seconds.

  *****

Preston had stared at his Prozium vial for endless minutes before secreting it with the others in the cache behind the mirror. Now he lay in his bed, tense and sweating, unable to quiet his mind to sleep. Unable to stop thinking of Partridge and what he had done. His penis was stiff. It hadn’t been completely soft since he left the factory. Just the memory of Partridge’s hands, Partridge’s mouth, was enough to keep him erect and needy.

 

He slid his hand stealthily down his own body, burrowed under the waistband of his pajamas and put a careful fingertip on himself. His penis twitched at his touch and he withdrew his hand hastily, elastic dragging painfully at his bruised wrist. His face burned. Why was he embarrassed? He was in his own bed in the middle of the night, with no one to know what he did and how it made him feel. But were people supposed to do this? Did people touch their own bodies when no partner was present? Did _Partridge_ do this?

 

The last thought brought a flush of fresh heat to his face and his penis stiffened even further. He slid his hand again inside his clothing and grasped the hard length of himself with nervous determination. He tried a cautious squeeze. Good. His eyes closed and he squeezed again, this time adding a hesitant stroke. Even better. With growing eagerness he stroked and rubbed and squeezed, quickly falling into an instinctive rhythm. His breath quickened, his heels dug into the mattress, his left hand played restlessly over his chest. He whimpered quietly as the feeling built. His hand moved faster and he felt seeping fluid begin to slick its path. Without warning, a throaty moan burst from his throat and he froze, listening.

 

Was that a footstep in the hallway? Had Robert gotten out of bed to see why strange sounds were coming from his bedroom? His penis wilted slightly at the thought of his son walking in on him. Seeing his father red-faced and gasping on the bed, stroking his own genitalia.

 

Preston jerked his hand out of his clothing and clenched it into a fist. He rolled onto his side and stared at the window, waiting for the sunrise.

 

******************************

 

Preston exchanged a last, speaking look with his son and walked out the door. His son. Who had been outwardly living the life of an automaton for four years, hiding his emotion so well that his own father didn’t suspect a thing. Preston tried to sort out his own emotions, exasperated at the annoying complexity of it. Pride in his son’s intelligence and cunning. Chagrin at having been so thoroughly fooled by a child. Fear for his children’s future if he failed in his mission. Grief and guilt at the death of Mary O’Brien. Lust for Partridge, who would be expecting him at the church in less than an hour.

 

He nodded at the sentry as he exited the building, confident that, thanks to Robert, their search would produce nothing more damning than the crumbs under the table from Lisa’s breakfast cereal. A deceptively-calm walk to his car and he was accelerating away from his home toward the Nethers.

 

By the time it was full dark he had paced the perimeter of the ruined church a dozen times, more convinced with each step that Partridge wouldn’t come. The voice, when he finally heard it, brought him spinning into a startled crouch.

 

“You came alone.”

 

Preston stared into the shadowed doorway, his heart beating absurdly fast. “Yes.”

 

Partridge stepped into the dim light and stared back at him silently, his eyes unreadable. He wore a long coat of maroon leather, scuffed and shabby. Underneath, a pair of dark jeans, sharply creased, and a soft, forest-green mock turtleneck. And on his feet, steel-toed boots in a startling shade of blue.

 

Exotic, imposing, and altogether dangerous.

 

Preston spoke again, nervously. “I’ve been in touch with the Resistance. Tomorrow, we’re —“

 

“How did you find them?” Partridge ran his finger along a dusty pew.

 

“You had written ‘freedom’ on the back of the photograph…”

 

Partridge turned to face him, jaw tight.

 

“I’m … I’m sorry I couldn’t save her … I tried, but—”

 

“You couldn’t have done anything. She was doomed the moment she was arrested.”

 

_By you._

 

The unspoken words hung heavily between them and Preston’s eyes dropped.

 

“So why have you come?”

 

“You … you said to come here if I wanted to find you again …”

 

“And why did you want to find me again? You seem to have found the Resistance without my help.”

 

Preston’s face heated and his mouth opened and closed silently.

 

“Did you want something else?”

 

“No.” Preston moved quickly toward the door in humiliated anger.

 

“Preston!” The name cracked through the church like a shot.

 

“Come with me.” Partridge turned and walked toward the opposite end of the church, not waiting to see if he was followed.

 

Preston hesitated, then walked after him.

 

They walked for the better part of an hour in silence, Preston trailing cautiously behind as Partridge took a confusing and complicated route through the scarred landscape. Why so complicated, Preston had no idea. He’d be able to find his way again easily and Partridge surely knew it.

 

Finally, Partridge lifted a trapdoor and descended a ladder. Preston followed and stood still in the darkness until a soft click flooded the room with light.

 

Books, piled high on every surface. An enormous poster of a white elephant with an orange blanket draped from its back. A basket with a spill of blue fabric dripping over its side. A green bicycle, flecks of chrome gleaming through the chipped paint, leaning against the wall. A tattered velvet bedspread of intense purple, tossed across an immense four-poster bed. Shelves and tables cluttered with a dizzying collection of strange and intriguing objects.

 

And Partridge, idly chewing on a toothpick as he leaned against a shabby bureau, just watching Preston take it all in.

 

“I remember that poster from that nest we cleared out last summer. Was it worth the risk just to have a picture on your wall?” Preston wandered restlessly through the room, trailing his fingertips along the surfaces, picking things up and putting them down, looking everywhere but the silent figure in the corner. He twirled a vase of pale pink crystal, watching the light sparkle within it, and set it down again. “You must have been building this for years.” He lifted a bottle of clear liquid imprinted with the word ‘Absolut.’ “When did you—”

 

“Drink some.”

 

“What?” Preston looked at the bottle in confusion. “Why?” He unscrewed the cap and sniffed cautiously. “Is this alcohol?”

 

“Yes. Drink it.”

 

Preston started to speak again, but instead raised the bottle to his lips and swallowed what felt like burning ice going down his throat. He coughed, grimaced, and defiantly took another gulp before looking up at Partridge with wet eyes. A few days ago, he would have said he knew this man better than anyone. Errol Partridge had worked beside him for six years. They fit seamlessly, shaping their styles to complement each other; fluid grace meshed with efficient brutality. And now this icy and enigmatic man stood before him in his worn and colorful clothing, such a marked contrast to the clean black lines of the Cleric’s tunic he had always worn.

 

“Have you been thinking about what happened, Preston?”

 

Preston set the bottle down with a thump, suddenly tired of the game. “Of course I have. I’ve barely been able to think of anything else. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

 

The toothpick was tossed aside. “It’s not about what I want. You came to me this time. What do you want?”

 

“I want …” He floundered for words. An odd, buzzing sensation was starting to swirl through his brain. Was it the alcohol or the situation? Whichever it was, Preston blurted recklessly, “I want to be with you again, like before.”

 

“You want sex?” Partridge’s voice was soft, but cold.

 

“Yes, I … want you.”

 

“Easy enough. I’m right here.”

 

Oh, God. Was it all up to him this time? He thought that once he had forced the words from his mouth that Partridge would take charge again. He swallowed against a suddenly dry tongue and stepped forward until he could feel the heat from Partridge’s body. Partridge didn’t move. He raised a hand to place it gingerly on the warm leather covering Partridge’s shoulder. He leaned forward and put his lips nervously against Partridge’s mouth. Partridge accepted the kiss, but did not return it. Moving his lips and tongue in clumsy imitation of what he remembered, Preston tried to ignite the heat that he knew was there, but Partridge remained passive. Preston pushed harder with his mouth, sliding the tip of his tongue along the enamel of Partridge’s teeth, but they didn’t part for him.

 

It was like caressing a statue.

 

Preston pulled back, looking for judgment or scorn or malice in Partridge’s eyes, but only saw the same hard blankness that had been there since the church. “I don’t know what to do,” he said desperately, part of him furious with himself for cooperating so willingly in his own humiliation.

 

Partridge didn’t reply, but Preston saw something flash through his eyes that might have been grim satisfaction. This was punishment, then. His eyes fell and he backed away until his hand touched the ladder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, hardly knowing what he said. “For Mary.”

 

Partridge’s eyes flared and in two strides he was across the room. Preston’s body tensed in preparation, reacting before his mind fully registered the threat. He stepped away from the ladder, moving instinctively for an open area in which to defend himself. But it wasn’t combat that Partridge intended. He slid his hand roughly to the back of Preston’s neck and hauled him into a kiss, nothing but sharp teeth and bruising force. Preston’s muffled protest— was it a protest?— was ignored and quickly forgotten. Partridge ravished his mouth, his hot, invasive tongue sweeping through every crevice, harsh stubble scraping his chin. A tooth nicked the corner of Preston’s lip, already sore from Brandt’s blow earlier in the day, and he turned his head slightly, trying to shift some of the painful pressure. Partridge’s hand tightened fiercely in his hair, wrenching his head back into place.

 

Preston felt the bed against the back of his knees and only then realized they had been moving. A hard shove and he was flat on his back, bouncing slightly on the mattress as Partridge let the coat fall from his shoulders, put a knee beside his hip and was on him again. Hands yanked at his clothing, shoved under his arms to move him further on the bed, and the kiss grew more ferocious, infused with a tang of copper. Preston tried to participate, but his stinging lips could do nothing but open pliantly to Partridge’s tongue. He tried to assist in the removal of his own clothing, but his limbs were heavy and graceless in their efforts and were impatiently batted aside. Partridge broke the kiss and Preston breathed heavily as he allowed him to yank the clothing from both of them.

 

Partridge’s body was lean and strong, padded with muscle at the shoulder, slim through the torso and hip. His penis jutted, thick and straight, from a nest of wiry hair. Preston stared hungrily, but was barely able to take in the sight before Partridge was coming down heavily upon him in a hot, smothering weight of bare skin, burying his face in Preston’s neck. Preston slid his hands around Partridge’s ribcage until they splayed flat against the sweaty skin of his back and clutched tightly. He moaned aloud at the feel of the hot erection sliding alongside his own and his penis jumped, leaking copiously as Partridge rocked his hips back and forth. Lips branded the skin of his neck and moist, hot breath against his ear made him shiver. He could feel the separate muscles in Partridge’s back and thighs working against him and he lifted one knee, sliding his calf up the length of Partridge’s leg. The breath in his ear began to carry a faint hint of voice as Partridge’s hips moved faster, grinding downward in quick, hard circles, kneading Preston’s swollen shaft beneath them. His own hips jerked upwards involuntarily in response and Partridge switched to a brisk thrusting motion, shoving Preston down into the bed with the force of it.

 

“Yes,” Preston said blindly as his head rolled back. One more thrust, and another, and he felt his penis thicken at the base as his testicles lifted and tightened, a liquid jolt of pleasure spiked upward through him, and for the second time in his life he felt his body jerk in the throes of orgasm and heat splashed onto his belly. His eyes opened wide, perceiving with impossible clarity a single freckle on Partridge’s shoulder, and his breath came high and quick as he rode the top of the tide and came crashing down into himself again. The muscles in his abdomen trembled and his hands slid limply from Partridge’s back to lie inert upon the bed.

 

He felt a surge of disappointment that it was over so quickly.

 

He wanted to burn Libria to ashes.

 

And abruptly he realized that it wasn’t over for both of them. Partridge had stopped the rocking motion of his body, but his erection still lay stiff and heavy against Preston’s hip. Preston swallowed, unsure once again now that his own need was spent. He reached a tentative hand between their bodies.

 

“No.”

 

“No?” Preston looked incredulously into Partridge’s eyes, now feverish with lust, but with the same hardness of before.

 

Partridge had been so much less infuriating before he died, Preston decided.

 

As if hearing this rudeness spoken, Partridge suddenly pushed himself to his knees. Preston drew in a startled breath as cool air eddied along his wet and sticky body, and then let it out in an undignified yelp as he was unceremoniously flipped to lie face down on the bed. Panic bloomed, followed by a sharp burst of anger, and he pushed himself up, only to have his arms collapse beneath him in boneless shock when he felt firm hands part his buttocks and a swipe of wet silk along his most sensitive flesh.

 

_“God …”_ was the only word he could manage and then all he could do was gasp for air, hips canted up helplessly as Partridge licked and nibbled behind him. The sensation was maddening. The tongue, surprisingly strong, swept back and forth along the most intimate part of him, reaching downward to nudge at his testicles, withdrawing now and again to allow blunt teeth to graze the skin of his buttocks or thighs. He pressed his forehead into the bed and focused very hard on not screaming. New blood rushed into his penis, still sensitive enough to merit a high, keening gasp of pain as it filled and tightened. A final wicked stab of tongue and a wet, sucking kiss at the very center of him, and then Partridge was pulling back, moving away.

 

Preston lay still, pulling in deep, uneven breaths, dizzily wondering what was next. He felt Partridge move to the edge of the bed and heard a drawer open. His eyes remained closed. A click of something plastic and then a fingertip was circling his anus, cool and slippery. The sensitive flesh jumped beneath the gentle touch and his shaft, now rigid and wet at the tip, twitched in sympathy. But when the finger breached him, every muscle of Preston’s body locked into instant denial and, with a speed that startled both of them, his body twisted, his hand snaking back to grab Partridge’s wrist in a hard grip.

 

Partridge went still in Preston’s grasp. A brief, endless moment passed as the two locked eyes and held this motionless tableau. For the first time since they met at the factory, Preston regarded Partridge with the icy, analytical eye of a Cleric; assessing threat and weakness, calculating the actions necessary to kill.

 

“Do you want me to stop?”

 

And he would stop, Preston knew. Pull his hands away, rise from the bed, and usher Preston out of his home as coldly as he had ushered him in. Preston considered this as his heart beat like a trip hammer, belying his outward calm. Partridge’s eyes held his steadily, and deliberately, Preston released his grasp of Partridge’s wrist and turned again to lie face down on the bed. He buried his face in the purple velvet, a softer cousin to Partridge’s stubble as it rubbed against his cheek, and held his breath as his body was invaded once again by Partridge’s finger, warm now, but still slick with some foreign substance. His muscles clenched involuntarily, trying to repel the intruder, but Partridge was inexorable.

 

His incipient erection had disappeared, wilted by the discomfort of the intrusion as well as the pale, lacy strands of fear that refused to be banished entirely. Partridge’s finger pushed deep, and felt twice as thick as Preston knew it to be. It pulled out and returned joined by a second and Preston’s jaw tightened on a grunt of pain. The fingers plunged and twisted, coating the channel with slickness and stretching the muscles slowly. Eyes squeezed shut, Preston tried to brutally squelch his growing disquiet but it was becoming— _fuck._

 

The convulsion of his body almost lifted them both clear off the bed. Instantly, Partridge’s hand was on the small of his back, holding him still. The fingers had found a place inside that sent pleasure crashing through him every time it was touched. Preston knew, somewhere in the back of his head where he could still think, that it must be his prostate gland but giving the thing a name seemed terribly unimportant. Partridge dug in and rubbed mercilessly and Preston yelled hoarsely into the muffling fabric beneath him. His penis filled in a painful rush and his hips lifted to protect it from the agony of friction. His left hand slid underneath to cup his shaft protectively and his right flailed blindly, searching for something to anchor him against the sudden conviction that he was about to fly off the bed. Before he found anything more solid than velvet, the torture stopped. And then— oh, shit— the fingers were leaving and Preston’s hips were being drawn further off the bed as Partridge’s weight shifted behind him.

 

The first push was just uncomfortable pressure; something blunt and slick and far too big to go where it was headed. But the second push was harder and it wasn’t too big after all. Partridge pushed relentlessly, sliding slowly and steadily inward. Preston pushed himself up on his hands and shouted something entirely without words at the rush of stretching, stabbing pain. And somehow the pain fed his passion instead of killing it and he spread his thighs wider.

 

Preston felt the brush of wiry hair and the soft weight of testicles settle against him as Partridge slid in the final inch and let out a noisy sigh. They held still for a moment; Preston with his hands and knees braced against the bed and his head hanging downward, Partridge curving hotly over his back, both breathing as if they had been sprinting. Then Partridge pulled away slightly. Preston’s body clutched him, only releasing the shaft in rough, dragging slides. The feel of that friction deep inside sent shudders of pleasure through Preston’s body and he moaned again. Another push, this time a little faster. Pull back and the slide came easier. Thrust again and the rhythm began.

 

Partridge fucked him, setting a deliberate rhythm of hard, deep thrusts. The force drove Preston forward again and again, threatening his balance, and he braced his hands and tried to meet each thrust with force of his own. The pain was muted now, overcome by the pleasure of being filled and rocked against Partridge’s body. Then Partridge’s shaft bumped the gland within him and a jolt of electricity hit the base of his spine. Preston arched his back, trying to duplicate the angle and was rewarded. Intense bursts of pleasure sizzled through him, up his spine, into his belly, all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. The thrusts came faster now and Partridge slipped his arm low around Preston’s hips, using his other hand to grip Preston’s shoulder tightly and increase the force of his driving thrusts. With each thrust, Preston’s hard and leaking erection rubbed along Partridge’s forearm, sliding damply through the scratchy hair, and Partridge’s own shaft bumped and butted against his sensitive nub. Preston felt as if sparks were being struck inside him, feeding the huge, rolling waves of pleasure that surged upward through his body and down, over and over. His shaky arms bent underneath him and again he lowered his upper body to the bed, burying his face in velvet and muffling his incoherent sounds of pleasure. Partridge curled his body around Preston and kept fucking him.

 

Preston’s moans were almost continuous now and Partridge began to grunt aloud from the strain. Partridge pulled himself upward on his knees, sliding his hands to Preston’s hips and gripping tightly, pulling Preston back against each stabbing thrust. His hips pistoned hard and fast, testicles slapping against Preston with each stroke, and Preston felt the familiar (so strange, that this was a familiar thing) coiling heat in his belly. For a long moment he balanced, in perfect and exquisite agony, on the knife’s edge. He watched a drop of sweat fall in slow motion onto the bedspread. He heard someone sobbing and wondered at it vaguely. And then, in a leisurely and unhurried way, he tipped over the edge into orgasm. His fingers clutched frantic handfuls of velvet and ecstasy slammed through him. His penis jerked spasmodically, spurting, and his body collapsed forward onto the bed. He lay flat on his belly, legs splayed wide, shaft twitching and spilling the last of its seed against the abrasive velvet, struggling to pull air into his lungs as Partridge followed him down and continued to fuck him even harder than before. Grunting with every thrust, Partridge jerked his hips against Preston’s backside in short, sharp stabs, plunging into him over and over, as if trying to drive straight through his body and into the mattress below.

 

Preston’s head swam and his vision grew dim. It was all he could do to lie still and breathe as his body passively accepted the relentless pounding of Partridge’s hips. It seemed as though he had always been there and would always remain, with Partridge thrusting frantically against him, driving into his body. His eyelids drooped and the purple velvet blurred. As if from a distance, he felt the rhythm break and a surge of heat inside him, and then there was ragged gasping in his ear, and sweat and weight pressing him down and he closed his eyes.  


*****

Something was looking at him. It was small and green and had black, beady eyes. Preston squinted. A lizard, stuffed and covered with some shiny fabric, rested on the table beside the bed. He speculated idly on the purpose of such a thing.

 

Before coming to a satisfactory conclusion, he was distracted by the oddly-combined sensations of pain and lassitude in his body. He took stock. Muscle aches … everywhere. A concentrated soreness in his backside. A stinging sensation in his lower lip. Perhaps he had bitten it. Perhaps Partridge had bitten it. But did this or anything else matter with such a languorous feeling of contentment pervading his entire body?

 

He inhaled deeply and became aware of a sharp, acrid odor. Rolling over, he encountered the other person in the bed.

 

“It lives!” Partridge’s tone was gently mocking and his eyes looked as content as Preston felt. He was sitting up against the headboard of the bed with an open book on his upraised knee, bare-chested and wearing a very faded and torn pair of blue jeans. His feet were bare and he was smoking a cigarette. Preston had never seen a cigarette before, except in old news footage, and regarded it curiously.

 

After another moment in which Preston didn’t speak, Partridge’s gaze sharpened. “You all right?”

 

Preston’s mouth spoke before his brain. “No handcuffs this time?”

 

Partridge smirked and stubbed out the cigarette in the green glass ashtray beside him. “I have another pair if you like.”

 

“Maybe next time.”

 

Another moment of silence while Preston raised himself, wincing, to lean next to Partridge. He looked at the book. “More poetry?”

 

“Not this time. Just something I’ve been trying to finish for a while now.”

 

Preston nodded and wondered what time it was. Despite the lack of windows, it had the feeling of approaching dawn. He reached out an idle hand and trailed his index finger down Partridge’s shoulder, over the curve of bicep, along the straight line of his forearm, testing the texture of skin and hair.

 

“What’s your plan?” Partridge’s voice was low.

 

Faint blue veins were visible inside the crook of Partridge’s elbow and Preston traced them with his fingertip. “I got half a promise from Dupont that if I bring in the Resistance I’ll be granted an audience with Father. Jurgen and a few of the others are going to let me round them up for capture.”

 

Partridge hissed softly. “That’s practically a suicide mission. For all of you.”

 

“Only practically?”

 

“You’re the best I’ve seen, Preston. But the odds …”

 

Preston rose and grimaced as he raised his arms high over his head and stretched his muscles carefully. Partridge watched. He picked up his trousers from the floor and stepped into them, then began to fumble with the twisted, inverted puzzle of his tunic. “I don’t matter, remember? Neither do you. It’s the human race I’m trying to save.”

 

More silence. “When does this happen?”

 

“The arrest will be tonight. Possibly tomorrow for the audience.” Preston had been wearing two shoes when he arrived. He was sure of it.

 

“I’ll get into the city and see if I can help with the strikes at the Prozium factories.”

 

Preston pulled his shoe from underneath the bed and sat, wincing, to pull it on, then half turned to face Partridge. “I’ll come back if …”

 

“If you’re alive?”

 

Smiling. “If I’m alive.” He rose and headed for the ladder.

 

“Preston.” Partridge levered himself off the bed and stepped in close. His eyes were very green, glinting devilishly. His voice was low, with a hint of gravel. “Come back alive and I’ll let you fuck me next time.”

 

Preston thought of several things he could say if he could get his tongue unstuck. Partridge grinned and patted him on the cheek and then flopped back on the bed and picked up his book.

 

END


End file.
